Autumn Rain
by Aranimar VIII
Summary: A dazzling romance sputters under a grey, autumn Japanese rain. A short Hatsumomo/Koichi piece. Warning: some extent of explicit sex being described, if somewhat depressingly so.


**Rating:** M. There is somewhat explicit sex being described.

**Remarks:** Does not follow the scene exactly in the book, but rather it uses the situation presented in the movie, adapting and expanding on it. This fic is written purely from Hatsumomo's POV and those who have read the book or watched the movie will know exactly which scene this fic is describing.

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><p>I swing round in a dizzying whirl, the colours of the teahouse hall blending into a confused montage of yellowed shades and hues. Toying with the golden fans in my hand, I toss the one in my right up into the air, and catch it with my other hand.<p>

_A __round __of __applause. _I look out into the sea of faces.

_All __bastards. __Every __single __one __of __them._

I smile. The makeup on my face bends uncomfortably around my lips.

I bring my hands together to the front of my _kimono_, and bow. Yet another round of applause, yet another round of lewd cheers.

_I __am __no __common __prostitute, __but __what __do __these __men __know?_

I gather my _shamisen_ and the cloth it lies on. I kneel down and proceed to disassemble my _shamisen_.

_What __a __fine __instrument._ The sleek surface of the cat-skin _shamisen _is magnificent, and the strings are supple and strong.

It was such a pity that disassembled, it was nothing more than a mess of dissevered parts. There was none of the elegant tones or rich flowing melodies - only well-crafted wooden parts with no use whatsoever on their own.

My mind then drifts to you.

I have always had a thought that the worst gift I could ever receive from you would be a _shamisen_. It isn't just that I am sick of seeing one or playing one; it reminds me of the fact that I am a _geisha_- a senseless but moving object of beauty and desire, a human manifestation of the highest form of art.

I am a _geisha_, Koichi. You know I am not to love, but you took off the mask of powder and kissed the face behind it anyway.

I lift my _shamisen _bag, and excuse myself. I exit the room, and in a flustered hurry, I rush towards the entryway of the teahouse.

The Kyoto moon is as enchanting as ever even under the shroud of a cloud-filled sky. A crescent in the sky, its angle reminds me of a closed eye, and I can almost visualise the stars as tears falling from it. What a pity it seemed like it was going to rain.

I pass by _okiya_ after _okiya_, the electric lamps casting a dim light on the ground. The wooden buildings look even older in the illumination. They tower by the sides of the street, their inner folds hardly touched by the vermillion rays of the entrance lights.

I finally reach the _Nitta__okiya_. It looks just like any of the other _okiyas_, its only sign of distinction being a poster that hangs rather forlornly on the wall next to the entrance. My own face stares out of the poster towards the entrance, and marks my first and only performance in the annual _Dances __of __the __Old __Spring_ as the lead in _The __First __Fruit __of __Spring_, a solo dance in which only recognised or accomplished geishas were permitted to perform in. In fact, _Okasan_ said I was perfect for the role and didn't hesitate to emphasise the fact that my name meant "the first peach". She said the name was chosen because it would mean that I was a freshly-ripened fruit, a young _geisha_ripe with juice and not a matured and dry one.

I am that precious – it is something I do not deny. But I preserved my juice as I could for only a select few – in fact, there are only two people in my whole life who have ever tasted this first peach of Spring, and even so I left most of it to none other than you.

The doorway hardly makes a sound as I slowly edge the door open. I try to remain as surreptitious as I possibly can. _What __would __Okaasan __do __to __me __if __I __was __caught?_

I forced the question out of my mind. I didn't care what _Okaasan _would do to me - there was nothing that she could possibly do to stop me from loving you, could she?

I push open the sliding door to the maid's room, all thought of remaining undiscovered thrown into the distant corners of my mind. I just want to see you – no one but you.

You turn around, flustered. I slide the door close behind me, and I run into your arms, our lips locking into a desperate kiss. Your textured hands run into my hair as our eyes meet. It is dark in the room, but I know we saw each others' eyes as clearly as in the day.

My obi falls to the ground, and I feel the folds of my _kimono _part. I feel your hands running over my back, trembling from longing. Our tongues meet again as your kimono shirt slips off, and we are bare to each other – flesh, skin, mind, and all.

You massage my hips tenderly as you slowly proceed into the treasured confines of my cave, wet from the rain of thoughts I had been having ever since we arranged to meet this night. As we gently rock and sway in unison, you whisper my name into my ears softly, tingling the hairs on the back of my neck.

At last we reach the final point and our juices mix as one, the passion of the moment surreal and unbelievably intense. Perhaps it is prolonged separation, or perhaps it is the cool, quiet autumn night.

We continue to caress for a while. The fabrics of our _kimonos _slide against our skin and the embroidered threads on mine glisten in the faint moonlight.

You suddenly stop. Desire stops dead in its tracks and turns to fear. Your eyes are transfixed on the door. I turn my head round.

_Chiyo._

You push yourself away from me and turn to the girl. Chiyo is taken aback and casts her eyes down, desperate to look as insignificant as she can.

There is a shuffling sound from beyond the courtyard outside the maid's room. You hurriedly pull my kimono up to my shoulders for me, and give me one hard kiss, dry with fear, desire and reluctance. I hold you tight to me – I don't want to let go, but you break the kiss anyway. You stare into my tear-filled eyes, your irises now a muddled blur in my vision.

The door rumbles open, and you run out into the cold night. Wind stale with the autumn cold blow into the room, carrying with it soft sprays of imminent rain.


End file.
